When Nothing Remains
by Witchdoctr
Summary: Extended, elaborated version of the "Canadian and the Russian Upstairs." Same start but different ending. RusCan this time.
1. Chapter 1

**Don't own Hetalia and all that jazz.**

**And yes, this is a side project, don't worry, this won't be multi-chaptered. Probably. Not. Because I have other responsibilities first, three to be precise. And I feel bad about not updating them as swiftly as I'd like. **

**Sorry. Thanks if you're reading this because you've read my other stories, though. Really appreciate it. My inspiration for this was that creepy "Man Upstairs with the Babysitter" urban legend, you know, the urban legend that inspired crappy movies like When a Stranger Comes Calling. I didn't like that movie too much, but it still inspred this fanfic. I shamelessly support RusCan and I shamelessly plug as well! Check out my As Hot as Ice and Cold as Fire! And if you already have... sorry, this is just to get my creative juices flowing, nothing more! **

* * *

><p>"You sure you'll be okay, bro?"<p>

Matthew glanced at his twin, whose bright blue eyes glint merrily with excitement, but not without concern.

"I-"

"Come on, Alfred! This is taking too long! Why are you we up here anyway? You need to take a piss or something?" one of Alfred's friends shouted from the passenger's seat.

"No! I'm just saying bye to my brother, geez!" Alfred shouted back.

"Brother? You have a brother?" the friend shouted back incredulously. "Who? What's his name?"

Matthew sighed.

Nameless, faceless, emotionless. This combination… just worked so well. Each fit with the other two in perfect harmony. There was a time where being without any recognition or even simple acknowledgement hurt him, but that was the past. A long time ago. It felt like a long time ago, but you lose track of time as your sanity slips, spiraling, into a whirlpool of slowly fading colors, colors that swirled round and round and round until they swirled into nothingness, a pale gray. Nothing more, nothing less. Simple. Easy. Painless.

"He's-!" Alfred paused, checking his watch. "Oh, it's eight o' clock! Holy shit, dudes! Sorry! Come on, let's get going before that party starts without us!"

And without another glance at his brother, standing forlornly at the door, he ran off. Leaving his brother alone once again. Without blinking, Matthew slammed the door shut after him. No point in standing there, wishing he'd at least said good-bye.

No point at all.

The blond, petite little Canadian inhaled deeply, pressing his palms against the kitchen counter. Frowning at his reflection in the polished surface.

Taking care of Mr. Vargas' children and his house for three days was really going to be a challenge.

He hadn't wanted to do it, of course. Working with children or working with other people at all wasn't on the top of his list. Usually canoeing, reading quietly, watching birds, taking a shower, and sleeping were on his list of things to do. All of these activities were recreational. Not because he was lazy, but because no one ever remembered that he was a human being and was capable of social and physical activity, such as American football, soccer, even hockey, which had once been a hobby of his before his life had turned downward. No one remembered that Canadian in the corner, the one that might actually be good at hockey, better in fact, than anyone else in the room. The few sympathetic eyes that managed to see him in the daylight assumed that he was a loner and that reading and watching birds ranging from pigeons to pelicans to hawks fly by were what he was content doing. No one ever considered that maybe he wanted a friend, wanted human companionship, wanted what every human wanted, to be _loved. _No one ever considered that maybe that kid, all alone out on the lake in his canoe, simply drifting alone, staring at the clouds, would actually crave something _more. _

He brushed a blond strand of hair away from his dark violet eyes, squinting at himself in the shiny black surface. He blinked and leaned closer. Something about his face made him frown. But he didn't like to look at himself, not in the mirror. Something about his face, his frown, and most importantly, his eyes filled his stomach with disgust. He looked away, closing his eyes and leaning forward, bending over the kitchen counter and pressing both of his crossed arms against the cool marble texture. He put his head into his arms. It was so cold. So dark. So dark here, in this lonely, lonely house in the middle of nowhere, deep into the depths of the unknown, beautiful and mystical, but mysterious and unknown nonetheless. Like the lake. He'd seen it during his thirty minute drive up here and had almost crashed into a tree. The lake had almost… hypnotized him with its depth, with its mysterious, cool beauty. Like a siren, beckoning for him to come and stay, stay forever in its cold embrace. No deception, no lies. Honesty. Come here, child. I know you're hurting, I know you need someone to hold you and keep you and cherish your cold, cold existence-

"Hey! You dumbass babysitter! Aren't you supposed to be taking care of us, you dumby bastard?"

Matthew sighed.

But he'd taken the job. Why?

Because Alfred had used up all of his cell phone minutes on his friend and had gone over 800 minutes. Their father had nearly blown his tea kettle over the price racked up on his phone bill. He'd yelled furiously at his oldest son for hours before finally deciding that Alfred was going to pay off every dollar of it, starting by babysitting Mr. Vargas's children, who needed a babysitter and had called for a favor at the last minute. Of course, Alfred had resisted. Normally it wouldn't be a problem, Alfred had argued, but this time it was because there was a totally awesome, super cool party for all the super cool people up on a low moutain, the Monderosa, as it was called. Not officially, just by the kids that considered it their hangout. Not too hard to climb and not too small for it to be a lame hill. Plus it was high enough for a rather pretty view of the surrounding countryside of flowers, meadows, and occasionally, herds of deer.

Not that there would be deer that night. Not with a party like that going on.

They'd be lucky if there would be any conscious teenagers by twelve in the afternoon the next day.

Yes, one of those kinds of parties.

The biggest, greatest, most epic party, the party of parties, that would be totally ass-kicking, as Alfred had shouted. The end of the year blowout. If he missed it, he'd be a total loser!

Which was why _Matthew_ had ended up standing in for him.

"I-"

Something hit his crotch. A light hit, but a hit nonetheless.

Matthew gasped in pain.

"What's the problem?" he choked.

"I'm fucking hungry!" the older Vargas brother shouted at him. Matthew glared down at him with pain-filled eyes.

"Why did you hit me?"

"Because I'm hungry, you damn bastard! I'm- ack-ack-thchoo! Chigi!" Lovino Vargas sneezed, his face furiously turning red.

"Lovi, you're sick. You're papa told me you should get plenty of rest. Go back to bed," Matthew told him, rubbing his balls and wincing.

"Don't masturbate in front of me!" Lovino squealed, his words ending in a coughing fit as his face flared even redder.

"I'm not," Matthew said quietly. "Go to bed, you're sick."

"I don't have to listen to you, you-!" With another sigh, the Canadian picked up the squirming little Italian, who protested violently as he was carried to his room and plopped down next to his little brother, who was curled up asleep like a little angel. Lovino didn't like that. He kicked his brother's back, but the other little boy slept blissfully on. "There will be none of that," Matthew said firmly. "Leave him alone and go to sleep yourself. You're sick." He rubbed the boy's back, his cold hands feeling the feverish warmth of Lovino's skin. "Your papa told me he already fed you. You don't need anymore food, just rest. Okay? Just rest. Sleepy-time." To his relief, Lovino's furious, slanted eyes eventually dimmed as the soothing , strangly cold circles against his feverish skin calmed him down. He started to fall asleep, unwillingly.

The Canadian sighed in relief.

Good. both of them were asleep. Now he just had to leave them alone.

He would feel bad about being relieved that the brothers were sick, but if they hadn't been, he'd be stuck with an aggressive little Italian and his accident-prone little idiot for a brother. Matthew thanked whatever gods were up there that all he had to do for some easy cash was sit in this big house and wait.

He backed out of the room and closed the door slowly.

He walked down the stairs.

It truly was a beautiful house.

To his left was a magnificent window with a panoramic view of the rippling lake. The rippling, yawning, blue-almost-black lake, staring at him.

Beckoning to him, almost.

Not begging. Asking him to come.

He had the choice.

It was there.

It would always be there for him. Not like the others. It didn't take and it didn't receive. It was simply there and would always be there. Reliable, safe, trustworthy.

Something caught in his throat. Something lodged into his brain, clouding his thoughts and polluting his heart.

He pressed pale white fingers to the glass.

Wishing the glass would-

The phone rang.

Matthew jumped.

Heart pounding in his throat, he jerked, falling backwards. He felt a flicker of panic, the panic of falling with nothing to grab onto, but his hands found the reassuring banister. He stared at himself, his body pressed against the banister, his eyes wild, reflected in the window, in the seemingly bottomless lake. For a second, he could see himself drowning in his own eyes. Then the phone rang again and he shook his head and stomped downstairs to grab the phone.

There was a phone on the coffee table. He reached for it, seizing it and pressing the Talk button before it could ring a third time.

"Hello? Vargas residence," he said quietly.

He waited.

Maybe he was too quiet. Again.

"Hello?"

There was a slight hitch from the opposite line.

A single breath.

Then another.

"Who is this?" Matthew asked. "This is the Vargas residence."

Panting. Heavy breathing, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, crackling. Then silence. Static.

Whoever it was hung up.

The Canadian's eyes narrowed in confusion.

"Pervert," he hissed into the mouthpiece.

He put the phone back into its holder.

Prank call.

Stupid.

But who would be prank-calling the Vargas's anyway?

They didn't seem like the people teenagers his age would prank call.

A flicker of unease.

Had the mysterious person been calling him?

No. No, that was ridiculous. Who would know he was here anyway?

People barely knew it when he was there, in the room, so why would anyone remember where he was, now, tonight, on the night of the big party blowout? Who would bother calling him?

It didn't matter. It wasn't scary. It wasn't creepy.

Matthew knew that the seed of anxiety had no good foundation for being there.

But it was.

A seed of tension.

He grimaced, staring at the phone.

The house was dark. It was a beautiful house, with refinement and class. Chandeliers, crystal, semi-precious stones, even gold, silver, every luxury you could imagine and more adorned the houses walls, tables, staircases, ceilings. Flat screen TVs, one of which was in front of him. He stared at it, but couldn't bring himself to turn it on. Something about the silence in the big, empty house felt sacred, like breaking it would be disrespectful. He glanced out the window at the lake, but his eyes didn't linger. His eyes flickered to the phone again.

It rang.

He stared at it uneasily.

He didn't want to answer it.

That was his first response.

But he couldn't just ignore it. It could be Mr. Vargas or his father or someone important.

Matthew's fingers fumbled for the phone, slipping a little before grasping it tighter.

He pushed the Talk button.

"Hello?"

For a few seconds, all he could hear was his heartbeat, throbbing in his chest.

Static crackled from the other end. Nothing but silent static.

Silence.

His heart beat louder.

"Who is this?" he said.

"YO, MATTIE!"

The blond jumped like he'd been shocked.

"Alfred! Don't do that to me!" he half-shouted, immediately shrinking as his voice broke the silence. A sense of wrongness tugged at his subconscious mind.

"DO WHAT, MAN? YOU'RE TALKING SO QUIET! I CAN'T HERE YOU! THIS PARTY IS TOTALLY RAD, MAN! YOU'RE MISSING ALL THE FUN!" the American shrieked.

Matthew winced, holding it away from his ear.

"Might I remind you who I'm sitting in for?" he said.

"WHAT?"

Matthew repeated, as loud as he could.

"SORRY, THE RECEPTION'S SHITTY UP HERE!"

"So is your hearing," Matthew murmured before repeating what he'd said again. That time Alfred caught it.

"YEAH ABOUT THAT-" his voice cracked. He said something else, but Matthew didn't catch it.

"What?"

Alfred repeated what he'd said.

"I can't hear you, okay? Listen, just- just talk to me la-?"

There was a creak. A light thump.

Matthew froze, his violet eyes widening.

The phone went dead.

His teeth gritted against each other as he bit back the fear collecting in his mouth.

He dropped the phone onto the couch.

Another steady, easy thump. The floorboards creaked with tension.

Matthew stood. Flinching as the floorboards creaked loudly under his own weight.

And squeezing his eyes shut as he heard the thumping stop.

Directly above his head. There. There above him.

There was someone in the house with him.

On the top floor.

With the children.

Matthew immediately kicked into gear. He jumped over the table and landed with a loud stamp, seizing the fire poker.

"Who's there?" he shouted. "Who's there?"

Who's there?

He paused, considering that question for a moment.

Who was there? Was it just his imagination? Just his vague reminiscing of the horror movies Alfred made him watch, when he remembered that he had a brother, that is? Just a ghost? Just a rambunctious ghost?

A dry, cracked laugh escaped his lips.

A ghost.

Just a ghost. Nothing but the remains of a human being. Bodies weren't remains. Ghosts were.

And that was what he was. That was what the noise was.

Nothing more than his sad hallucinations.

He sat down.

Creak, creak, creak.

Nothing but his thoughts.

Thump, thump, thump.

Nothing but himself.

Scccccrrrrrraaatttccchhhhh.

The wind. Branches beating against windows and doors.

A high-pitched whistle.

Definitely the wind.

Creak, creak, creak.

Nothing but himself.

Thump, thump.

Nothing.

Creak.

But.

Scrape.

Himself.

Nothing.

Nothing.

_Nothing. _

And at that moment, Lovino and Feliciano Vargas both sat up and screamed simultaneously.

Thump.

Matthew bolted up immediately. He was up the stairs and bursting into their bedroom in a flash.

Not noticing the shadows flickering at the end of the hall. The brief licker of a twin pair of shiny white sparks.

"Kids?"

Lovino had his little brother held tightly in his arms, huddled in the corner, his back to the wall, his eyes wild. Feliciano's eyes were scared and he was shaking, but he looked exhausted, as did his older brother, whose eyes held a feverish kind of energy. His eyes narrowed, flooding with fury as he saw his babysitter.

"Get away!" he shouted, not recognizing him.

"No, no, it's okay, it's me. What's wrong?" Matthew asked, coming into the room.

"You damnable maple-sucking-!" Lovino continued ranting while Feliciano burst into tears.

"What- what is it?"

It took him awhile to calm them down.

"You stupid Canuck, how dare you leave us alone?" Lovino howled. "Something bad could've happened to us!"

"I assure you, you're safe, okay?" Matthew said soothingly.

"No! Because there was a man in the doorway!"

The Canadian's gut clenched.

"What?"

"Are you deaf? There was a man in the doorway!"

Matthew looked over his shoulder.

He felt his throat tighten. The doorway was empty.

But he could feel something in the air that was... wrong.

And his stomach didn't like it.

"I-I'm sure it was... just a dream," he forced out, trying to smile disarmingly. Lovino wasn't convinced however.

"There was no one here," Matthew said, trying to convince the children, as well as himself. "And I promise you guys are safe, okay? I promise."

"Pinky promise?" Feliciano sniffed. He held out his pinky finger. Matthew shook it with his own.

"I promise," he said solemnly. "I promise you guys are going to be fine. It was just a nightmare. No danger at all."

Downstairs, the phone rang.

"I'll go get that," he told them.

"Don't leave!" Lovino squealed.

"I have to answer the phone. It might be your dad," he replied, patting both of the little Italians on the head. He tugged on their cute little curls, just on an impulse. It seemed to work. Almost immediately, they both fell back, their eyes fluttering shut, like they'd been asleep for hours. How odd. Maybe that was comforting to them? Having their curls pulled? He knew what his own curl did, but it was far from comforting... in fact, what his curl did made him seem like a pervert for touching theirs in the first place.

He trotted downstairs just as the phone rang a third, the last time.

He dove for the phone.

"Hello?" he said.

Static. Crackling static.

"Alfred?"

No reply. It might've been his imagination, but there seemed to be a shuffling noise in the background of the heavy static. It was probably just his imaginaton, though.

"Alfred," Matthew said, annoyed. "If you crinkling paper over the phone, it's not funny, okay? Just drop it, okay?"

Pause.

Matthew was about to hang up the phone when he heard a quiet murmur.

A mere whisper.

But through the static, the question rang clear.

"How were the children?"

Click.

Whoever had been on the phone hung up.

Matthew dropped the phone.

He collapsed onto the couch, clamping his hands around his eyes.

Who the hell was calling him?

How had they known what he was doing? How had they _seen _him?

Matthew stood up and spun in a circle, staring at every window, every shadow, every door with anxiety.

Something bad was happening.

These weren't just prank calls.

Someone was watching him. Someone was watching him and the children.

That set off a switch in his head.

His first thought was to run. Just grab the kids and run. Find the keys to one of Mr. Vargas's cars and just drive away.

But that was ridiculous. The children were sick.

He couldn't drag them outside on some wild run.

Besides, it might've just been Alfred, thinking it'd be funny to spook him. It could've just been coincidence that Alfred had called just after the children had claimed to see a man in their doorway.

Yeah, that was probably it.

Matthew's mind accepted it, but his heart wouldn't quit pounding.

He sat down with a sigh.

He closed his eyes wearily.

Calm down, calm down, calm down.

He wished he had someone to calm him down, someone he could trust that could tell him it was okay, that everything was okay. Someone he could trust to take care of him.

But he'd never had anyone like that. Because those who remembered him only thought of him as a strong individual, a loner. When he and Alfred had been down with the cold, much like the Vargas siblings, Arthur had come into their room and had sat next to Alfred all night long, gently rubbing his back. He'd looked at Matthew occasionally, from time to time, to make sure he was alright, but he, like the others, assumed Matthew was okay, stoic and used to being alone. Assumed that Matthew liked to be alone and didn't like to be touched, that Matthew was the independent one who didn't need anyone to care about him but himself.

And over time, that was what he'd become.

And he had to calm himself down because it wasn't fair to the children. It wasn't fair to worry them. He was the one taking care of them. He was the stand-in for authority, so he would be the strong one here, the one who'd reassure them that he would take care of them and that they would be safe.

His heart slowed back to its normal pace.

He opened his eyes.

The ceiling.

There was a splash.

A gentle splash.

His eyes wandered lazily to the window. The wide, panoramic window, to his right with the staircase going down across it, cutting through his view of the lake.

It wasn't the mountains or the lush green meadows or the colorful flowers or the swampy marshlands with fireflies and their sparkly wings and the fireflies sparkling yellow that hynotized him.

It was that damned lake.

He could see it. All of it. No deception. Transparency.

He could see it.

It could see him.

Matthew stared at it. In an almost trance-like state, he stood up once more and pressed both hands against the glass.

The glass was so cold.

But it almost felt warm. Beckoning.

He wished the glass was gone. That there was nothing between him and that yawning, gaping black hole-

Click.

His glasses had clinked against the glass.

Blinking, he pulled his face away.

There was a man standing behind him, reflected in the glass.

Inhale.

Massive pain in his back.

He had stumbled back and tripped, hitting the ground.

He flipped himself, defensively crouched, his mouth open in mid-scream.

There was no one there.

No one behind him.

He was alone.

He was alone.

A flicker of disappointment.

But that didn't make sense. He was disappointed? Why? Because there wasn't a murderer in the house, running around terrorizing him?

Matthew straightened up, clutching his aching back.

He felt chills on the back of his neck.

They said that the hair on your neck was almost a sixth sense, a warning that there was someone watching.

But there was nothing behind him but the lake.

He refused to look back. Looking back meant admitting what he wouldn't admit, what he couldn't admit.

That there was really no danger on the outside, but the inside. That the phone calls, the reflection, the children's "man in the doorway" wasn't the danger. He was.

Because if he was really honest with himself, he knew very well what darkness lurked in his heart, not outside.

That if the glass hadn't been there, he would've jumped.

And that was more dangerous than any villain, imagined or not.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

He didn't want to answer it.

He knew it wasn't Mr. Vargas. He knew it wasn't his brother.

But he knew that he had to answer the phone.

"Hello," he said quietly. "I know it's you."

"AW, DAMN, YOU GOT ME! HI MATTIE! IT'S GILBERT!"

Matthew let out a scream.

"What? What? I was just messing with you! Calm down, birdie, it's just me!" Gilbert shouted. "You okay?"

"I-I guess. I mean," a short glance at the window. "I guess I'm fine."

"You guess? What's the problem? You need me to come over or what?" the albino shouted.

"No, no, I'm just- I'm just-"

"HEY GILBERT! COME ON, LET'S GO SWIMMING!" a girl shrieked on Gilbert's end.

"Yeah, awesome! Let's dump Yao first though! That'd be totally awesome!" Gilbert shouted.

Forgetting Matthew was on the phone, he hung up.

The Canadian closed his eyes, pressing a finger on the bridge of his nose and squeezing.

He put the phone on the glass coffee table.

As soon as he did, it rang.

He almost smiled.

Was Gilbert calling him back? Had he actually remembered, in a split second, that he had hung up on his Canadian friend?

"Gil? Gil?"

There was an awkward pause.

"It's okay," Matthew said softly. "I'm used to it."

Still a pause.

"Gil? I'm okay, you don't have to worry."

"But I do. Are you okay?"

That wasn't Gilbert's voice.

Matthew slammed the phone down on the glass without hanging up.

He stumbled back, his legs hitting the back of the couch and folding, letting his body fall.

He put a hand to his mouth, staring at the phone, his eyes glassy.

Tears began to roll down his cheeks, soaking his shirt as they spilled.

Sobs wracked his chest, but only a choked coughing sound could be heard.

No one had ever asked him that before. And certainly not a stranger.

He cried.

He cried.

He cried.

That was all that needed to be described.

That seemed like all he seemed to do.

The location changed, from his bedroom to his canoe, to the closet of a friend's house, to the Vargas's house, but it was all his life seemed to be.

Just one long night of crying, of sorrow, of tragedy not described by words other than "he cried."

A long, long night.

A sleepless night.

He wanted to sleep. He really, really wanted to sleep. He wanted the night, the never ending night to be over.

Just end it.

The hair on his neck rose.

The lake was staring at him again.

Could he resist it?

Did he want to?

It seemed like a dream.

A dream where scenes changed as quickly as his thoughts changed.

One second he was in the house, turning the alarm on as he left, the next he was on the cliff. The house was perched on said cliff, so there wasn't much space for him. But he'd never needed much space.

Six steps and there it was.

The lake was there. Waiting.

The lake didn't care for his life, but at least it would keep him.

If he went in, it would never let him go.

He was so ready. So ready for someone who _wouldn't let him go._ Someone who would hold him and never release him.

It wouldn't be caring. It wouldn't be love or affection. It would be... death.

But what else was there? What security did he have?

He was nothing more than a ghost. Just what was left of what should've been a human being.

His mind been beaten down into nothing after years and years of solitude and loneliness trapped inside his head with nowhere to go. His mind was a cage and all he'd done over the years to his pain was hide it. But it had been eating his mind, his soul, his heart every second until there was nothing left.

And now he was ready for his body to join it.

He began walking. Vaguely he was aware of the house behind him, of the children, sleeping in their beds, of someone he didn't know, calling mysteriously. Vaguely he was aware of the children, who needed him. Of the possible danger in this decision, not to himself, but them as well. He was leaving them behind, with someone who knew they were home alone and was somewhere nearby, somewhere they could see into the house. He knew.

But he was leaving life behind.

Nothing else mattered.

It wasn't life that would matter. It was death that would.

A step. A step. Another step. Another. One more...

And it was done.

Falling, falling, falling.

With a scream, his back arched and his body thrashed.

He opened his eyes.

He was on the couch. In the house.

The clock said it was midnight.

It was a solid, pitch dark black out there.

The windows were nothing but black.

It was like he was in a coffin.

But he wasn't dead.

And he couldn't see the lake anymore.

It had all been a dream.

Matthew didn't know whether he should be relieved or disappointed.

And that threw him for a second.

Did he- did he really want to-?

Something wet dripped into his lap.

His hair.

His hair was wet.

His body was aching.

He was soaking wet.

Had he been outside? Was it raining?

No.

The water on his skin had an... unhealthy green tint.

Lake water.

It wasn't a dream.

But if it hadn't been a dream... how was he still-?

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

He let it ring.

A feeling of exhaustion, of confusion, of a dull kind of fear weighed down his limbs.

Someone. Someone was calling.

"Hello, this is the Vargas household. Please leave a message," came Mr. Vargas's recorded voice.

"Mattie? Dude, you okay? Sorry I forgot to say goodbye, man. This party was just so rocking awesome! I didn't mean to seem like an arrogant bastard or anything! I wasn't ignoring you or anything dude!"

Alfred or Gilbert? Both of them had forgotten. And it could've been either of them.

The mesage machine turned off.

He closed his eyes.

He wanted to sleep.

But he didn't want to ruin the couch. He sat up.

And realized that there was a coat around him.

A thick, giant coat, wrapped around him. So thick it felt like a towel. He stared curiously at it.

Beige. Warm. Large.

Whose jacket was it?

Where had it come from?

He bit his lip.

He pulled the coat tighter around his cold, wet body.

Maybe he'd pulled himself out of the water. Maybe he was brain damaged and couldn't remember pulling this coat out of Mr. Vargas's closet.

He checked the alarm. It was on. The code was written on a scrap of paper hidden behind the pad. He checked the message machine. There was Gilbert or Alfred's message, but no message from the security alarm company that would've called if it had been set off.

He rubbed his neck. He felt so cold.

Taking a hot shower would help.

He scrubbed the dingy lake filth off his body, trying to be thorough.

The coat.

The "dream."

The lake.

The alarm system.

Had he dragged himself in?

But if he had, then why could he remember it?

And why had he saved himself anyway?

Saving himself wasn't the plan. He was tired of saving himself.

There had to be someone else. Someone else involved in this story.

But he didn't understand!

The phone calls, the man, the noises, the little mysteries.

If there was someone watching him, did that mean they'd seen him jump?

Had they... saved him?

A trickle of cold water, just a single drop, ran down his spine.

He pulled back the shower curtains.

No one in the hallway. He started to wish he'd closed the door instead of stripping down and just hopping in the shower.

Unease.

But he couldn't place it.

But he soon quit trying.

There was a more pressing question on his mind.

Did he truly want to die?

That was a interesting question. One he wasn't sure how to answer.

Did he?

All evidence pointed to yes, he did.

But the moments he wanted to kill himself were rare and in-between.

Sometimes, he felt like he was obligated to live.

If there was anyone who'd notice his absence, it was his brother. And he didn't want his brother thinking it was his fault. He didn't want any of his family thinking it was their fault. Even if it was. He was obligated to fade out of existence completely before truly dying. He didn't want anyone to suffer because of him.

Angrily, he scrubbed his face until it felt raw.

How dare he?

He had actually left the Vargas kids without a caretaker. He'd left them alone. Been considering leaving them alone forever.

How could he? Abandoning his charges for a suicidal notion placed in his head and letting himself believe that there were no consequences for his actions?

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Selfish, selfish, selfish.

How dare he think about himself when all he was, was trash.

He wanted to apologize to the Vargases, but they were asleep and didn't know their babysitter had tried to kill himself but had somehow lived.

No, they didn't need to know that.

Squeak.

Matthew flinched at the noise, wincing as he felt pain splitting his back. He bent over, trying to reduce the pain to no avail. He'd just have to wait for the pain to pass.

After a few seconds, the pain faded and he could stand up straight again.

He pulled the shower curtains back with a squeak as the shower curtain rings scraped the metal rod.

The door was shut.

Matthew's throat went oddly dry.

"Lovino? Feliciano?" he croaked. "Was that you?"

He turned the water off and stepped out.

He took a white fluffy bathrobe from the hook on the door and stepped out into the hallway. He shivered; the floor was cold against his bare feet.

"Hello?" he dared call out. "Kids? Lovi? Feli?"

Silence answered him.

Fear clenched his heart, spiraling through his blood vessels and sending his adrenaline pumping.

He felt a scream building up inside his throat, but fear locked his mouth shut.

Calm. Calm. Calm.

It didn't mean anything, it didn't mean anything. It was just his paranoid mind. Just his sensitive mind. He was just feeling sensitive after trying to kill himself and then coming to his senses.

Just jumpy.

He checked the kids' room.

Feliciano was curled around his brother, both arms around his neck, his body pressed against his stomach while Lovino looked like he was trying to get away from him.

Cute.

Matthew felt a strange sense of calm from them.

He was the adult here. He had to take care of these kids.

Panicking would do none of them any good.

_Ring. Ring. Ring. _

_The phone was ringing again. _

The Canadian carefully stepped down the stairs.

"Alfred?"

"Hey Mattie! Did-get-ca-?"

"Alfred, you're going in and out," Matthew said. "Can you hear me?"

"Kind of. Mattie- sorry-didn't-party-couldn't-intense-stupid," Alfred's voice came in fragments.

"I can't understand you," Matthew said.

"Wait- going-find-be- reception."

The phone clicked off.

The Canadian waited.

It rang.

"Better now?" Matthew asked. "Can you hear me, Alfred? What were you saying?"

The phone clicked off again.

The Canadian sighed.

He put the phone down.

He walked back upstairs.

He hung the bathrobe back up before dressing himself, cleaning up the water he'd left behind from his shower.

He was about to rub his hair dry when the phone rang again.

Figuring it was Alfred calling him again, he wrapped the towel hastily around his head before trotting downstairs. He decided to just take the phone with him instead of this pointless running up and down. He took the phone.

"Hello? Al?"

"Are you okay?"

"What do you mean?" Matthew asked. "And how did you find such good reception? Are you coming home now or something?"

No answer.

"Are you coming home yet, Al? I-I don't think I'm okay."

"Why not?"

"Al?" Matthew frowned.

"No."

A quiet murmur.

Matthew felt his throat tighten and his stomach drop.

"Who are you?" he forced himself to say. "Why do you keep calling me? What do you want?"

No answer.

"What do you want? Why do you keep calling me?"

Static.

Heavy breathing.

Suddenly a fire, a burst of anger, flared inside his chest.

"Leave- leave me-leave me the fuck alone! Stop fucking calling me!" he shouted, feeling quite unlike himself. Quite different. He felt... angry. Furious.

Furious for being afraid.

"Stay off the fucking phone! If you're trying to scare me, then you can just stop! Just stop! It's not funny and if it's just for your sick amusement, then you can go fuck yourself!"

He slammed the phone down without letting the caller respond.

He was breathing hard, just glaring at the phone for a moment, feeling his heart beat uncomfortably against his ribcage.

For a moment, he panicked.

Who knew who had called? What if it was a psychopath? What if he knew where Matthew was, right now? What if he could _see _him?

His heart stopped when the phone rang once more.

He flinched.

What had he been thinking?

Was he insane?

Why had he picked now to stand up for himself? Why had he decided now to grow angry? To be furious instead of sad. To be fierce instead of a coward. To face a problem head on instead of simply hiding or waiting until someone else came to face it for him.

It rang again. And again.

He was so tired. So tired of being afraid.

He was tired of his heart, his little mousy heart that beat wildly all over the place, his little broken heart.

It hurt too much.

They said after a while, pain has to fade. No one can hurt forever. No one. He was numb to the pain. The pain was nothing to him anymore.

And logic was too.

He didn't answer the phone.

But he wasn't watching it with a wild-eyed fear.

He waited.

He glared at the phone and waited.

"Hello, this is the Vargas household. Please leave a message."

"Um, Mattie? I found better reception. I think." Alfred's voice was going in and out and crackling, but Matthew could make out most of what he was saying. The parts he didn't get could be guessed. "Listen, you don't have to answer the phone, but I just want you to know I'm sorry for making you stay in for me! This party is rocking, dude. Sorry you missed it, man. And thanks for standing in for me. It was really nice of you, bro. When I get back, I'll probably be drunk off my ass tonight, but maybe we can watch some movies tomorrow night? Just you and me? I feel bad, so we can spend some time together later... Love you."

Matthew lunged at it.

He pressed Talk and brought it to his ear.

"Hey Al? Alfred?"

Static.

Some crackling.

Matthew sighed.

He put the phone on the table and sat once more.

Feeling a surge of love for his brother.

Alfred actually cared about him.

He'd called knowing he'd been insensitive to his brother's feelings. He'd actually known how his brother had felt. He'd felt bad.

Matthew wanted so badly to hear his brother's voice again.

He wanted to hear him say "Love you" again, because as sad as it sounded, those words were alien to his ears.

He smiled.

Alfred was his big brother. Of course he cared about his brother. He was a fool to think otherwise just because his brother wasn't good at expressing it.

_You mean he forgets it sometimes. _

Before Matthew could really respond to the maliciously hurtful thought, the phone rang.

He seized it and answered it.

"Hey Alfred. Yeah, that'd be great. Thanks for calling me. Listen, could you- could you… come home? I mean, come here? I know you're party is amazing and all, but I kind of- I'm kind of… nervous up here. If-if you wouldn't mind watching movies now instead of tomorrow? I know you want to get wasted and all, but-but I really-"

Matthew couldn't say it. He just couldn't bring himself to say what he'd done, been trying to do.

It would've broken his brother's heart.

He wouldn't understand.

He'd blame himself.

He'd come home immediately.

"Alfred, I tried to kill myself a few hours ago. And- and I really can't handle being alone! So-so, could you please- could you please come over here? I can't- I can't… be alone anymore."

Maybe he wanted his brother to care. Maybe he wanted his brother to blame himself and feel guilty.

Maybe he wanted to know his brother cared and would be concerned.

No static this time.

Was Alfred listening intently? Was he shocked? Was he hurt?

"I-I really-really want to... hear you say you love me."

"I will."

Matthew screamed.

He was wrong. He was very wrong. He was very wrong.

He thought fear could only last so long.

He thought the pain of being afraid all of the time had numbed his pain core.

He thought his anger had overtaken his fear.

He thought his emotions were dry, withered out until there was nothing but a husk.

But no.

He was only human.

That voice, that voice.

Those words.

It was a man.

His voice was soft and gentle.

He sounded a little sad.

And he scared the wits out of the Canadian.

The fear was back. There was no escaping it.

The fear had never left him.

He sprung up off the couch. He flew up the stairs.

He made for the children's room.

"Feli? Lovi? Feli! Lovi! We're going to go to my house, okay?" he shouted. "I'm going to call my dad and-"

Matthew pushed on their door. It was locked.

"Feli? Lovi? Let me in! Let me in! We're in danger!" he shouted, pounding on the door. He didn't care if he was being paranoid.

He was scared.

He was scared of the caller, scared of being alone, scared of this big empty house with nothing but himself.

He just wanted to be home, where it was safe, or at least, comfortable.

He didn't want to be the adult.

He didn't want to be in charge.

He wanted to be home.

It wasn't his heaven. No, far from it.

But it was his home.

He wanted to be home so badly.

He wanted to be away from the uncertain fear of the phone caller, and the alluring lake, and the guilt of knowing he'd nearly committed suicide. He wanted to start again and never come near this place, never come near this haunted place where his heart had been torn open and put up on display.

All to someone he didn't know.

Someone who knew.

Knew things that no one else knew about him.

He was torn between fear and guilt and humiliation and grief.

Every emotion set his lungs on fire, causing his voice to burst out of its shell.

"Why did you lock the door, goddamnit?"

"D-don't-don't come in!" he heard Lovino cry fearfully. "Don't!"

"Let me in!"

"No! You can't come in! Get out of here! Leave us alone!"

"No!" Matthew tightened his fists.

This was going to hurt. It was going to hurt a lot.

He threw his body against the door, slamming his gangly limbs as hard as he could against the door.

The door's lock snapped.

He shoved the door open with a slam, not letting his throbbing shoulder or his bruised fist slow him down.

"Lovi-?"

Something hard and heavy smashed against his temple.

Bright white pain.

All he saw were bright white flashing lights.

"Matthew!"

The last thing he heard were the children's screams before sinking it blackness.

_Lovino. Feliciano. Alfred. _

_I'm so sorry. _

* * *

><p><strong>As am I.<strong>

**So I'm starting another fic. You guys asked for it!**

**So you have asked, so you shall receive. This is now another updating project. **

**:P**

**Thank you for reviewing though. It was really kind. I'm sorry for the turdy ending, but this time, there's an excuse for the crappy ending, because it's not really the end! **

**I'm really contradicting my author's note at the top... but I won't delete it. I want everyone to know what this started out as.**

**So they can't blame me for how shitty it was after it's over. **

**Just kidding. :D**

**This isn't just a side project anymore. **

***sigh* for better or for worse. **


	2. Chapter 2

Alfred gulped down his last beer.

"So-sorry, dudes... to-tota-totally fucking awe-awesome!" he groaned, his head spinning. "Whoo! Par-tay!Par-tay!"

"Y-you're-you're not go-gonna stay? Stupid blitskotchingfrighun," his British friend Iggy rambled off, his eyes rolling as he fell to the ground. He was always the first person to get crazy drunk. Not the first person to black out, just the first person to start gibbering nonsense and doing crazy stuff. So the most fun to mess with. Alfred could hold his beer much longer than him and he and all his friends had had fun playing with his drunken state of being, since old Iggy was never any fun normally.

"Right on! Right on!" Gilbert howled. "So true!"

He laughed, more like cackled really, before smacking the nearest girl's ass.

The nearest girl happened to be Elizaveta Hedervary.

She swung around and punched Gilbert square on the face, causing the already dizzy boy to hit the ground. She soon joined him, straddling him, somewhere between smiling down at his seductively to furiously glaring at his face with a deep-seated hatred. "Fu-gin dooj bag," she slurred at him. "'m gonna screw you up, joo stug up pig-pig-piggy faced bi-bitch-"

"You can-youcanscrewme wunever y'want," Gilbert giggled.

Alfred giggled.

"Ha! It's like an orgy!" a French exchange student from Paris named Francis Bonnefoy screeched. "Let's 'ave an orgy! Let's 'ave an orgy!"

"Not if Iggy's- Iggy's out of it," Alfred slurred. Dropping his empty beer bottle onto the grass. And swatting at his face for imaginary bugs.

"What does zis matter?"

"RAPE! RAPE!" Iggy screamed, coming to all of a sudden. His green eyes were as round as tennis balls and he looked terribly, terribly excited. "Duck left, duck right! All around, up and down, down and up, dodge, dodge! Be quick and dodge all of them rapists! They're everywhere! They're everywhere! Especially in France! Especially the Francenese. I mean, uh, the French! They're rappey!"

"Eez not rape if you like it," Francis purred.

"Like totally!" Feliks screeched. He'd come to the party wearing pants, but now, somehow he'd ended up in a red dress. He lifted up his skirts. "Whoo! How, like, totally hot am I? Be honest!"

"Total 10!" Elizaveta screeched. "Francis, kiss him for me, will ya?"

Francis threw himself on the Polish boy and seized him by the front of his dress, lifting him up and laying a drunken kiss directly on the lips.

There was a mix of catcalls (from the girls) and ewww's (from some of the boys), and a squeal from Elizaveta.

Alfed laughed. He started to stumble away from the couple before tripping over Yao's prone body.

"So-sorry dude," he choked. "Didn't-didn't see ya' there!"

He stumbled vaguely in the direction of his car, then swung around again.

"Dudes-dudes, I-I gotta bail! Ma-Mattie-he-he's all alone... and I feel bad, so I'm gonna go home now. I mean, his home. I mean, not his home. He doesn't live there. I mean the home he's visiting... I mean babysitting! Babysitting! He's babysitting the house for me and I gotta go-"

He trailed off. No one paid his rambling much attention. They were having too much fun in the drunken haze, the drunken let-it-go aura the party possessed. But the party was mostly over now. Most of the party-goers had passed out, were having sex, or had gone home, not necessarily in that order, and it was now more of a private party. All of Alfred's friends were here, no longer just the general school mass that had been there a few hours before. Even the friends he'd driven here had gone home with someone else before he had. Were his friends the only ones left now? Cool. Private party, still with plenty of booze and good company.

He didn't really want to leave, even if the really crazy crowd was gone. But he was feeling guilty about letting Matthew take the rap for him... and guilt and alcohol never went well together. Matthew would need a ride soon.

Uh, he was starting to get sober.

He hated being sober.

It was like the middle of being drunk, which was fun, and normal, which could be fun. But between the two of them?

It sucked balls.

He got to his car. To his shock, it was already open. Had he not locked it?

Oops. Oh well. It wasn't like he had anything valuable inside and it was pretty obvious no one had hotwired it.

He climbed inside the driver's seat, plopping down with a heavy sigh.

He began turning the wheel.

It took him a good four minutes before realizing that he wasn't driving and the car wasn't moving. Aww. If he was drunk, then he'd be giggling. Whenever he started getting sober, he ended up being sad rather than giggly when his mind still wasn't functioning properly. So in effect, his mind was slow, but he wasn't happy, he was sad. And that sucked. Frowning, he wondered where his keys had gotten to.

He checked his pockets. Nothing in his pockets except a few gum wrappers, coupons for McDonald's, and condoms. He wondered dimly where they'd gotten to. Had he put them in Yong Soo's pants? He remembered the South Korean boy throwing his pants to the ground and streaking around butt-naked before passing out, but had he put his keys in his pants? Had he thrown them down in the grass? Had they ended up in Yong Soo's pants or had Gilbert taken them from him? He remembered Gilbert pick-pocketing him, but had he taken his keys too?

Thump.

Alfred let out a girly scream and jumped, swearing as his head banged against the windshield.

Still cursing, he clutched his temple. "Ouch!" he cried. "What was that?"

"Yo!"

Alfred screamed again.

He threw himself at the door, almost yanking the door handle off as he twisted it, letting himself out.

He hit the ground hard, but he wasn't easy to injure. He could easily brush off falls that had most people moaning on the ground clutching their injury. He rolled and was back on his feet almost as soon as he hit the ground. He glared up at his car, his eyes wide.

Eyes that narrowed in annoyance.

"Gilbert! What the fuck do you want? And why are you in my car? Get out, you loser!" Alfred yelled.

"Me? I ain't a loser! I'm pretty friggin' nice! I got your car keys, for one, and I'm going to drive you home 'cause you're drunk and they say drunk drivers... they say-they say you shouldn't drive drunk," Gilbert said, looking a little confused for a moment. It took him a moment to understand what he'd say, but when he did, a grin like the Cheshire Cat's spread across his face. "I sure am nice, aren't I?"

Alfred swore at him, getting to his feet.

"You're drunk too-"

"But not as drunk as you. Besides, I want to see Birdie. I called him earlier to apologize for forgetting to say goodbye and ignoring him by accident, but he wasn't there and I'm not sure if he's angry! I wanna go see if he's okay... I forgot to say goodbye and I think I upset him," Gilbert murmured, any signs of intoxication fading as he stared solemnly at the American. Alfred frowned at him. Great, now he felt bad for forgetting to say goodbye too.

"F-fine. Drive. But you'd-you'd better not get me killed before we get there!" Alfred exclaimed. "Because it would make Matthew sad!"

"Sure, I'll try not to crash us. Or get a DUI," Gilbert murmured, scooting into the driver's seat and letting Alfred take the passenger's seat.

The drive back was quiet but Alfred's head was starting to throb as he began to get sober real fast.

"Uh, I wish I could black out like everyone else," he moaned. "I never get to wake up with a headache. I always get one before I can pass out and end up not sleepng at all. It really sucks, man."

"Yeah, well, sucks to be you, dude. Seriously. I'm like one of those people who never gets hungover," Gilbert said. "My head is buzzing, but it'll fade away and I'll feel like I always do."

Alfred stared at him.

"Seriously? Dude, you are so lucky. Uhh, I hate being sober. I wish I could recover from alcohol poisioning in the morning, not in the same night! And how does that even happen anyway?"

"Uh you get drunk, but it doesn't stay in your system too easily? Do your drunk spells last that long?"

"No. Unlike Iggy, when I get drunk, it's usually quick, so to get totally off my ass drunk, I have to drink _a lot. _Too bad I didn't drink enough tonight," Alfred ended his sentence with another groan. "The good news is, though, if I'm a miserable sober guy, then at least me and Mattie can spend the first night of summer together! He thought I was ditching him, but I'm coming back early! And even better, I'm sober!" He suddenly went red.

Gilbert barely had time to flinch before the America lunged into the back seat and threw up in the trash bag hanging around the passenger seat headrest.

"Well, almost sober."

"Disgusting," Gilbert grimaced, his eyes drifting back to the road. "You poor, poor unlucky people. For me, it's like masturbating! It's fun and when you're done and had your fun, you can just go back to doing whatever you were doing before with no side affects."

"You're disgusting dude," Alfred said, his throat scratchy. "And you need to get laid."

"Yeah, well, I was, but then I decided to drive your drunken ass home! Not because I like you, but because Mattie's been worrying me. Have you noticed that he's been really... distant recently? Like he was always kind of gloomy and anti-social, but recently, he's seemed really... sad. I've been meaning to talk to him, but-" Gilbert stopped and Alfred knew what he'd been about to say. He'd forgotten.

_Just like everyone did. _

_Damnit._

"Stop the car!"

"What? Why?"

"Just do it damnit!"

Gilbert pulled over to the side of the road.

And ended up turning on the radio and cranking the volume up as high as he could to drown out Alfred's wretching and vomiting noises.

Disgusting.

He was so glad he had an immunity to hangovers.

It had a lot to do with the fact that as soon as his buzz started to die down he would drink gallons on gallons of water then piss it back out. They said that got it out of your system. But he had a lot of friends that tried that too and it didn't really work for them.

In a disgusting fascination, Gilbert watched his friend/ enemy puke his guts out, his fingers thrumming against the steering wheel.

For whatever reason he'd had the luck of having an immunity to painful hangovers. And he took full advantage of it.

"Alfred? Dude, you okay?" Gilbert asked. "Are you puking up blood?"

"Nope, just everything else," Alfred said, his throat extremely sore. He made an odd, distorted his face and leaned over again, but this time was just a dry heave. He panted. "Dude, there's a water bottle in the door pocket. Grab it for me, will ya?"

Gilbert rifled through hamburger wrappers before he managed to fish a half-drank water bottle out of the mess. He took a sip himself before leaning over the armrest and tossing it to the American on the ground.

Alfred began to gulp down what was left of the water. He sighed when he'd squeezed out the last drop, wishing there was more. Oh well. He knew his throat would feel dry for a long time, probably until tomorrow morning, regardless of how much water he drank.

He sighed again, rubbing his hair.

He put his hand to his pocket.

Good. His glasses were there.

But his phone wasn't.

"G-gil? Have my phone?"

"Yup."

"Give it to me."

He climbed back into the car.

"You okay now? No more Exorcist shit?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Give me the phone."

"No drunk-dialing now."

"Shut up! I'm not drunk! Well, not the fun drunk anymore," Alfred admitted. "Damn. No more drinking."

"Everyone says that, but they all know getting drunk is so worth it. No, I'm sorry, I mean everyone but the awesome me! Since I never-"

"Alright! Stop rubbing it in!"

Gilbert cackled/ laughed and pulled the car back into the lane as Alfred started dialing.

The first time, he accidently called his home phone on impulse.

"ALFRED JONES, I'M GOING TO MURDER YOU, YOU LITTLE PUNK!"

Alfred hung up.

"Ouch, even _I_ heard that," Gilbert grimaced.

"My old man. Wrong number. Mattie's at the Vargas household. I already called him like ten times."

"Aww, the Vargases? Those cute litte Italians? Cute," Gilbert said, smiling.

Alfred dialed the right number this time, his ears ringing from the wrong number. Rather, the voice on the end of the wrong number. God, he was going to get so much crap for staying out late and getting drunk. Maybe he could convince Dad that he hadn't gotten drunk. Would that work? He smelt like alcohol, but there was no hangover to prove it, right? Maybe he could-

"Hello, this is the Vargas household. Please leave a message," someone said in a gruff, faintly Italian accent.

"Uh, why haven't you been answering me, dude? I'm sorry for not calling sooner than the last time I tried. Listen, now we're going over there, okay? I decided to pick you up, since I'm not as drunk as I was hoping. I guess I was exaggerating. Too bad, since I was really hoping I'd be really drunk. Gil's driving, but I'm not drunk anymore, so we can watch movies tonight, if you're up to it, instead of tomorrow! But I warn you! Dad's spazzing out. You're going to have to calm him down, I guess. But you know, it's like putting a goat with a giraffe right... oh wait, that might not be right. Maybe it's a goat with... a horse? I don't know. I just know he doesn't yell at me too much when you're there. So I'm coming to get you! It was a fun party, dude, and a lot of people are going to wake up tomorrow morning wondering what the hell they did last night, but not me! I know exactly what I did, since I didn't get to sleep myself sober! Just ask Gil, I had it the hard way-!"

The phone clicked off.

"What the hell?" Alfred frowned. "Why did it turn off?"

"Because you were talking for too long, stupid," Gilbert grunted. "Damn, I'm feeling a little woozy. Can you shut up, please? Your voice is annoying."

"Okay, fine, Mr. I-don't-get-drunk Beilschmidt!"

Alfred huffed and pouted.

But he did quiet himself.

Gilbert wouldn't admit it, but having the car completely silent was rather awkward and he almost immediately regretted the command. He thrummed his fingers against the steering wheel. The silence didn't do anything but make the buzzing in his head seem louder. He gnawed on his lip. He'd never had a reaction like this. Maybe his immunity was wearing off.

The buzzing was kind of unnatural.

Something about it made him uneasy.

There was a rock in his stomach.

He felt... dread.

He was worried.

About what?

He squinted at the road, thinking harder.

What did he have to worry about? School was out. There was nothing he should be worrying about. In fact, he should be relieved that school is finally over and all of his work load is gone. So what was he dreading? Why did he feel like he was going to throw up? It wasn't the alcohol. No, it was something worse. He felt the way some people did after horror movies, a sick and churning fear. He felt the way he had after watching Woman in Black. While watching it, he hadn't thought it was scary, but after he'd gone home and tried to sleep in his dark, lightless room, he'd had this same feeling. Like something bad was going to happen.

He wasn't the type to have premonitions or those weird "bad feelings" some people had before some big disaster.

He didn't have that sense some people got before getting on a plane. You know, those people that get off the plane before it explodes.

Like that Final Destination shit.

Yeah, Final Destination. Gilbert liked those movies.

Nah, it was nothing.

Gilbert was just being paranoid.

Not to mention weird.

"Hey! Idiot! Turn back there!"

"Don't call me an idiot! I don't know where this place is! You're supposed to direct me, dumbass!"

"I just did! Turn back there! Totally not awesome!"

"Excuse me?"

They began to bicker.

And kept bickering.

And didn't stop bickering. Not even when they got to the Vargas household.

Alfred was still yelling at the albino as he walked up to the door and hammered on it.

But he soon directed his voice at Matthew instead of Gilbert.

"Hey Mattie! I guess Mr. Vargas isn't here yet! So... I don't know when he said he'd be back, but I guess we could just wait with you, huh? Gilbert wants to talk to you anyway! He wants to admit that he LURVS you and is so totally guilty for not saying-"

"SHUT UP, FATASS!"

"I'm not fat!"

The two began to wrestle. Some shuffling and pathetic insults thrown at one another that mostly just rehashed the typical insults ("you're fat," "you're stupid," "you can get laid," "you're a hamburger-munching nitwit"), ensued. But before it could progress, something stopped them both in their tracks. Something that scared both teenagers.

They heard screaming.

* * *

><p><strong>...<strong>

**Review? **

**Yeah, please point out wherever there is a flaw in something that happened. For instance, earlier I planned on having where Alfred leaves the message saying "Love you," in this chapter, from Alfred's point of view. I actually had it and was about to publish it when I realized that the wording implied that Alfred was actually AT the party, not driving there as I had it placed.**

**So please point out when I do something like that. **

**I'm sure there's some point where things are illogical or don't make sense or just don't add up.**

**Seriously, please, don't let me embarrass myself. **


	3. Chapter 3

"Lovino? Lovino? Feliciano? Are you guys okay? Matthew?" Gilbert screamed, letting go of Alfred immediately. "Matthew?"

Alfred hammered on the door. "Matthew? Are you guys okay?"

The screaming continued.

Terrified screams with few intervals in between.

"LET US IN! WHAT'S WRONG? MATTIE!"

Gilbert grew frustrated.

He ran back to the car.

"Gilbert what-?"

Gilbert seized Alfred's phone.

"Call nine-one-one!" he ordered. "And move back!"

"Why-?"

Gilbert shoved the phone into his hand.

"Just do it!"

He raced back to the car and began shuffling through Alfred's car, trying to find something hard or heavy. But there was nothing in the American's car that could possibly be of use.

"Think, think!" Gilbert though, trying to ignore Alfred's frantic, hysterical screams into the phone and the screaming from the house.

He turned around all of a sudden. The lake. Of course.

"Sir, sir, please calm down and tell me what the emergency is."

"Matthew's in trouble and it's all my fault!" Alfred wailed.

"You idiot, tell them where we are!" Gilbert snapped over his shoulder.

He raced to the lake.

And froze.

The house was situated on an uprise of land. So if he continued running, he would've gone over the side of a cliff face. Fortunately, the upraised land was steadier and less of a sharp-dropping cliff near the edges. He bolted to the right. He didn't slow down too much, though. He kept proceeding, but with caution this time. He stumbled and almost fell, but there was no time for it. He reached the lake. But it wasn't the lake he was heading for. It was the rocky shore. He scrabbled about over rocks the size of dogs, trying to find what he wanted.

After a few seconds, he found it.

A large rock, about the size of a cat. It was heavy and would've hurt if he'd dropped it on his foot, but that was good. That was very good.

"Listen, my brother and the kids he was babysitting are in trouble! I need the police! The address? Uh, I guess- holy shit, Gilbert!"

The albino paid him no attention. His arms and legs were killing him and his adrenaline was sending his heartbeat completely haywire. He didn't even respond to the frantic blond.

He threw the heavy rock with all of his might at the near window.

The gigantic, panoramic window facing the surrounding nature.

But he didn't give a shit.

Screw it. If Mr. Vargas sued him for destroying his window to get into his house because he'd heard his children screaming, then so be it.

He threw it with all of his strength at the window.

With an earsplitting shatter, the large, beautiful window broke into large, dangerous pieces of glass. It crumbled into the grass and onto the gravel as well as inside the house, but Gilbert paid it no attention, just jumping through the now open space and skidding slightly on the broken glass. Alfred finished his call before hanging the phone up and scrambling after the albino. He, unlike Gilbert, slipped and fell, his knees getting cut and sliced up by the sharp little glass shards, but he couldn't care less. Nothing short of losing one of his legs could stop him from getting to his brothers and those kids and being the hero!

"Mattie?" Gilbert cried desperately.

"Who's there? Help us!" he heard the Vargas children scream.

He followed their voices. Those poor little Italian boys. He hoped they weren't hurt. But that nagging feeling in his head wouldn't go away, that worry that it wasn't the children he had to worry about, but their babysitter.

The bedroom. They were in the bedroom.

He threw himself up against the door. To his shock, it was unlocked. Later, he would see that the lock itself was broken. But not now. That wasn't important now.

Gilbert almost slipped as Alfred collided into his back, shoving him forward, stumbling into the room. Glbert cursed at him, his hand immediately going to his aching spine. "You dumbass!" he shouted. But Alfred wasn't looking at him. His eyes were wide, horrified, as he surveyed the floor. Gilbert looked down. Blood. He'd slipped in blood.

There was a puddle on the floor. Both of them stared at each other for a moment, the same horrified expression reflected in each other's eyes. Then-

"You fucking dumbass, dummy-headed, cunt-sucking, pig-fucking-"

"Geez," Alfred frowned, looking scandalized. Gilbert ignored him, instead lunging at the closet. Not only was the closet locked, but a chair was jammed underneath the door handle, forcing it shut. Gilbert wrenched the chair free of the door and yanked frantically at the door lock. Thankfully, it wasn't a particularly strong lock. Probably just a child lock. Gilbert broke it easier than, unbeknownst to him, Matthew had broken the bedroom lock. He yanked it open.

Out tumbled a screaming, crying Feliciano, who ran crying passed Gilbert's legs and into Alfred's outstretched arms. Alfred grabbed the little Italian boy, immediately hugging him tighter and rubbing slow circles over his back, trying to calm him down and understand what the small boy was babbling incoherently. Lovino, on the other hand, ran out and leapt at Gilbert in a fury, lashing out with his small fists and crying his eyes out, but in a rage rather than out of fear. Gilbert was sure he was scared and masking it with anger, but it didn't make his furious little punches to the balls any less painful. He resisted the urge to swear at the Italian and possibly scare, but_ something_ had to be done. Lovino was clearly upset, but that didn't give him the right to hit him when he was trying to help! Plus, how on earth was he supposed to help if he just stood there and took it?

He caught Lovino's tiny little fists and pulled him into a firm embrace, trying to be supporting and also stop the attack. Lovino still shrieked cuss words at him, causing his little brother to scream even louder, adding to the considerable racket the two little boys managed to make, all on their own.

"Lo-Lo- Lovino Romano Vargas! Calm down! I need you to calm down! What happened? Who put you in the closet? Where's Matthew?" Gilbert asked desperately, trying his best not to shake the boy hysterically, his fear building up in his chest.

"H-he was taken away!" Lovino screamed.

"By the scary man!" Feliciano added, breaking down once again. Screaming and crying and apologizing, for being useless, for letting Matthew be taken, for the scary man for even being there.

"Scary man? Who? Did you recognize him? What happened?" Alfred demanded, his comforting aura vanishing as his anger began to rise inside his chest, swirling and spiraling higher until his eyes were almost glowing with fury, his voice suddenly urgent. "Feliciano? Lovino? Tell us everything that happened!"

"W-we saw him earlier, but Matthew thought we dreamt him up!" Lovino said, sniveling. "And-and-"

"And we went to sleep!"

"Yes. And I woke up later, when I heard the phone ringing downstairs. I was going to go back to sleep, but then I heard footsteps coming down the hall. I thought it was Matthew, so I went and opened the door. And I saw this gigantic, big, scary, ugly man standing in the door with a phone in his hand. I couldn't see his face. The light was behind him and his face was in the shadows. I was going to scream, but he grabbed my mouth with one hand and then the light moved and I saw him _smile _the scariest smile I've ever seen! Then he said into the phone, 'I will' and it was the scariest thing I ever saw because then that creepy smile got bigger! He grabbed Feliciano and then threw us both into the corner. It hurt! He took out a knife and threatened to cut our tongues out if we didn't keep quiet. Then I heard Matthew screaming something and footsteps pounding up the stairs. I wanted to yell a warning, but I couldn't with that scary man and his knife in the room!"

"Then Matthew started to hit the door!" Feliciano wailed. "He tried to get in!"

"And I got scared and yelled when I wasn't supposed to!" Lovino wailed. "And I told him not to come in! I told him!"

"Then he broke the door!"

"Yeah, the door! And he came in and then-then-"

"Blood!" Feliciano shrieked, pointing at the puddle. "The scary man made him bleed!"

"Made him bleed? What happened?" Alfred shouted, unable to keep himself from shaking Feliciano furiously, trying to get him to stop crying long enough to tell him what had happened. But it proved too much for the younger Italian. He simply burst into frightened tears and they couldn't get a word out of him besides "Sorry" and "Scary."

Alfred rounded on Lovino.

"Lovino, you'd better-"

"Alfred! Don't scare him!" Gilbert reprimanded. "Lovino, please, can you tell us-?"

"Yeah, of course I can! You don't scare me!" Lovino squeaked defiantly, glaring at Alfred. "If you're ever a bastard to my little brother again I'll-"

"Save it," Alfred snapped harshly. "Right now, my little brother is _missing. _So I couldn't care less about yours."

Both Gilbert and Lovino were shocked to hear him say that. Sweet, affable Alfred saying he couldn't care less about Feliciano? Out of the three of them, they would both agree that Alfred was nicest. And he seemed so callous right now. Shockingly apathetic to the sobbing, clearly distressed little kid.

But no. Gilbert knew that Alfred was anything but callous. The fact that he'd said something so out of character just showed how much he loved his brother, and how panicked and worried he was for him. It showed how much he cared.

But now was not the time.

"Shut up, Alfred. I get that you're upset, but-"

"But nothing! Lovino, tell me what happened!" Alfred demanded.

Lovino sniffled, but replied.

"He-he came in and-and the scary guy took this big pipe out of his gigantic jacket. He hit Matthew hard. Hard enough to-to make all that blood," Lovino said, his voice shaking. "H-he kneeled down and-and he stroked Matthew's hair. He-he told him he loved him, then stroked his ch-cheek! Then he turned around and we were both screaming. I thought he was going to kill us! But he only shoved us in the closet, saying something about-about not getting Matthew in trouble. It was so horrible! He trapped us in here and it was scary! And we were all alone! For hours!"

Hours. Hours. It had been hours.

Both Gilbert and Alfred felt their hearts drop. The man had had hours to escape, get anywhere on the planet away from them. What had he done with him? Why had he wanted him?

They knew what had happened, yet, they didn't really know what had happened, did they?

"Lovino," Alfred said, his voice tightly calm. "What did the man look like?"

"Eh-eh, I- atchoo! He-he," Lovino coughed for a minute and Alfred had to resist the urge to slap him. "He was big. And-and he had kind of a round face and light hair. But-but I couldn't really see-"

"His coat was beige," Feliciano managed to choke out. He'd been crying too long and now his voice was cracked and sore. "Remember the big pockets?"

"Yeah, the coat had big pockets. But we didn't see anything else! It was too dark!"

Alfred stared at him, his mouth slightly open. He just stared at Feliciano, his eyes wide.

He could see it in his head, horrible in its clarty. A mysterious, dark stranger with no face hurting his precious little brother, his precious baby brother, and taking his bleeding body out of the room. Carrying him? Caressing him? Dragging him? Raping him, then throwing his body into the lake? Just the thought of seeing his brother's stone cold corpse thrown into the lake, covered in blood, brought tears to his eyes.

"Wide, staring eyes," Alfred said aloud, his voice cracking, his head falling into his hands as the tears fell faster.

"W-what?"

"Nothing," Gilbert said hastily, knowing exactly what Alfred was thinking about, but not wanting to scare the children.

It was then, staring at the puddle of blood, Alfred snapped. But not the way Gilbert expected him to. He expected Alfred to snap into a ferocious rage and go out screaming at the heavens and go looking for his brother with a mad fervor. He thought Alfred's eyes would be bright with ardor and he'd be shouting. He'd be angry, yes, vengeful, definitely, determined, absolutely. Violent? Perhaps. But nothing Gilbert expected was anywhere near Alfred's _actual _response.

He looked up and for a moment, his eyes were wild and Gilbert braced himself for a crazed, psycopathic rant. A lot of screaming, and a lot of breaking fragile or perhaps not so fragile objects. Maybe some crazy running out into the wilderness-

But then Alfred's face crumpled. Just contorted, his face anguished, as he put his face in his hands and just cried. No hatred, no passion, just sorrow.

Lovino backed away from him, slightly alarmed, but Gilbert scooted closer timidly. "Al-Alfred?" he tried, not sure what to say to the usually energetic, feisty American. Crying people were not his specialty. Come to think of it, he didn't have a specialty when it came to dealing with emotions. Or people. Or people with emotions. He wasn't sure how he would've dealt with Alfred if he'd gotten really angrily and gone storming out. Gilbert was usually as high-strung as Alfred. He didn't know why he didn't feel angry or pissed or even sad like Alfred. He just felt... stunned. Calm. Controlled, but shocked. It was odd. And it confused him.

"We ha-have to find-find him!" Alfred wailed, his head shooting up. He grabbed Gilbert's shirt and shook him before pulling him closer and hugging him like a teddy bear. "We have to! "Before s-something bad happens!"

But they both knew, and the children knew too, that something bad had already happened.

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry. It's shorter than I intended. <strong>

**I'm trying to write more, put more details into my writing without being repetitive. But I'm not sure how I'm doing. If you've read my other stories, can you please tell me if you think I'm succeeding. **


	4. Chapter 4

_"Lovi-?" _

_Something hard and heavy smashed against his temple._

_Bright white pain._

_All he saw were bright white flashing lights._

_"Matthew!"_

_The last thing he heard were the children's screams before sinking it blackness._

Lovino. Feliciano. Alfred.

I'm so sorry.

When Matthew's eyes fluttered open, he gasped.

His head was throbbing, like a baseball was bouncing hard against the inside of his skull, trying to break free. He wanted to put his hand to his temple, just on an impulse, but his hands were numb and he couldn't feel them. He frowned and tried to move them, get the blood flowing again. But found he couldn't.

Matthew's hands were tied behind his back, ropes around his wrists, tied to something hard. Tape had been pressed against his mouth, effectively blocking any words. He struggled, wiggling like a fish on the hook, but the ropes, though they did allow for some movement, didn't loosen. He had been tied to something, some kind of bar, probably a vertical-barred metal headboard, judging by the soft surface he was sitting on that felt like a bed. He was tied in a sitting-up position, which didn't allow for much thrashing or movement at all. He made a muffled grunt as his struggles intensified. He thrashed, testing to see if the ropes would hold. But they were flexible and strong and his flailing did nothing but chafe his wrists. The headache he was feeling intensified with every movement he made, but he couldn't just sit there like a corpse, could he?

Something was tied around his eyes, preventing him from seeing anything, but for a moment, he thought his eyes were still closed and that he was still asleep. For a moment, he willed for it to be true, that he was dreaming. He tried to believe, for just a moment despite all the evidence, that none of what he remembered had happened. That he'd run upstairs and had been knocked unconcious, had been attacked by some stranger who'd, presumably, made all of the phone calls, who'd kidnapped him. Had he simply fallen asleep? Was it all a dream, all of this? The whole night? No scary stranger, no scary phone calls, no suicide attempts? All a nightmare? The likes of which dwelt in his subconscious and only presented itself when he was asleep? The kind of stuff that you saw in movies or read in books?

But no.

The ropes were real. The blindfold was real. The fear was real.

And the danger was certainly real.

Matthew stopped moving, trying to think rationally and not panic and flail and scream as was his first instinct. But that was foolish. He didn't know where he was and it would be stupid to draw attention to himself yet. Who knew where he was or who had taken him? Making noise might only bring them back to... wherever he was currently. He'd see if he could escape on his own first.

Carefully, his fingers fumbled with the cool metal his wrists were bound to. Matthew tried to reach the knots, tried to somehow pull them around so that he could get to them, but it just wasn't possible. With a frustrated grunt, he tested the metal, yanking on it to see if it would hold up. To his consternation, the metal bar was perfectly solid and firm, not bendy or weak enough to manipulate. His long legs lashed out as he struggled to free his hands, his back arching and bending against the frame. He tried to swing his legs to the side of the bed, but his arms bent and stretched painfully when he tried and he had to quit. Matthew fumbled at the wall, trying to loosen the knots in some way, but no matter which way his fingers moved, no matter how flexible he made his hands, no matter how bad his chafing became, they wouldn't budge.

With a frustrated sigh through the tape, he relaxed, simply laying his back and his head against the metal bed frame. He was breathing hard from his activities, his wrists were burning, his heart hurting from the stress it had had to deal with all night, his head buzzing from the nasty throbbing lump on his head.

What the hell had happened?

What the hell was happening?

He'd been taken from the Vargas residence, from the kids he was babysitting, to some unknown location where, while unconscious, he'd been tied to a bed and left alone. What was happening? Had his captor simply abandoned him? No, that seemed unlikely. And a trifle too _lucky._

He'd been... toyed with. Harassed before being taken captive. What was it the mysterious stranger had wanted? Scare him? To tease him? Like the cat toying with the mouse before killing it? Was it just some sick game? Was he going to die?

But most importantly, if it was all a game and he was nothing more than a toy to some sick, perverted sicko, then why, why oh why, had he'd been saved?

Because as much as he hated to think it, as confusing and strange as the notion was, the man that had been terrorizing him, had pulled him out of the lake.

It _couldn't_ have been someone else.

But at the same time, it _couldn't _have been him.

There was a giggle.

"You're rather adorable when you wiggle like that, did you know?"

That voice!

Matthew jerked in alarm, his head protesting at the sharp movement. He winced, grinding his teeth, as he waited for his pain to recede. When it did, he let out a sigh of relief.

Then shrieked as the tape was roughly torn from his lips. He coughed violently, his lips tingling. When he was done, there was another giggle. Then silence.

A deadly kind of silence, not the comforting, safe, and relieved kind.

Matthew was almost afraid to break it. Almost.

"Who are you? Why am I here?"

Matthew tensed as something soft brushed across his cheek. A hand. _His _hand.

"No where am I?" the voice said teasingly. "Because I would tell you if you asked."

"Fine! Where am I?" Matthew asked, impatient but not willing to be too aggressive. He was nervous, but it was kind of a pent-up energy kind of nervous.

"You're in the Beringsworth hotel."

"Great. That means nothing to me," Matthew snapped. Quaking as he felt those dreaded fingers on his cheek again, running down his chin and stroking his neck rather sensually. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Why so aggressive?"

A strong accent. He thought it sounded familiar... German? No, it wasn't as harsh or guttural as German sounded. It came off as more of a purr. This stranger, his captor, sounded Russian.

His hands jerked nervously.

"You-you kidnapped me!" he squeaked.

There was a pause. Matthew could almost hear his smirk. To his disgust, the stranger pressed his lips against his neck, so that he could actually _feel _his smirk, curling around his sensitive skin. He shuddered in revulsion.

It was as if he was wordlessly saying, _and? _

_And-and_

"W-why?"

There were many whys he wanted to ask.

But one was all he could utter, because at that moment, he felt lips on his, effectively cutting off any other words he wanted to speak.

For a few seconds, he stopped breathing. His heart beat like a jackrabbit and a hum built up in his throat, a scream wanting to be released. He was too shocked to jerk away or do anything but sit there, feeling cool lips on his. His brain felt like a deer in headlights, like death and destruction were bearing down on him but he couldn't move or do anything but stare them in the face.

The man didn't force anything. Just kept his lips firmly pressed against Matthew's for a few seconds. Then pulling back, studying his face.

Matthew didn't have a mirror (and his eyes were closed), but he was pretty sure that his shock was clearly displayed on his face. He felt his mouth tremble. Seconds before...

"Why?" the Russian asked amusedly. "I already told you, my sweet. I suppose... I suppose you wish for me to say it again, da?"

"What-what are you talking about?"

"You said you wanted me."

"What? What the hell are you-?"

"You said you wanted to hear me say it."

"I don't know what you're-"

"I love you, Matthew Williams."

Matthew let out a gasp, maybe of shock, maybe of disgust.

But his captor didn't really know which. And he didn't particularly care.

He pressed his lips against the young teenager's and took the oppurtunity to push his tongue inside, groaning at the soft, warm heat of his new lover's mouth.

He, Ivan Braginski, had slept with many people. Felt lust for most of them. Simply wanted to hurt a few of them. Enjoyed their screams, in pleasure or in pain. Had even felt fond or passionate for a few.

He'd even told an even smaller few that he loved them.

But never before, had he ever wondered, as he did right now, if he actually meant it.

And that was as scary as it was thrilling to him. This new captive, this new toy, was different. And perhaps that was why his plan changed from simply wanting the boy's body, to falling in love with that pale, smooth, markless skin, those sweet, quiet lips, and those wide, innocent yet tortured violet eyes. He fell in lust with the boy's body (and who wouldn't? He was truly a fine specimen), but it was the soul he saw reflected in those tortured eyes that he fell in love with at first sight. Maybe he was simply responding to the suffering he saw reflected in those eyes, that unbearable loneliness he often saw in the mirror, in his own eyes. Maybe it was simply those eyes. Maybe it was seeing Matthew fall, those violet eyes calm and sweet with a complete lack of fear or pain as he fell, that truly prevented him from simply feeling lust for him. Seeing his thin, lean body falling to the water as if he were a fallen angel. A fallen angel, cast down from Heaven, hurtling towards death, but accepting it with a wide heart, and forgiving the one who'd cast him down from heaven.

Perhaps that was why.

Still. Ivan wasn't sure. Crazy? Yes. Sadistic? Yes. Obsessive? Yes. In love?

He wasn't sure. Which was why Matthew was currently his experiment.

First, questions:

Was love possible?

Could someone like him, whose emotions had been abused, crushed, and burned beyond repair, feel love ever again?

Would it be worth it? Would it feel the way it was supposed to? Warm and soft and compassionate rather than sick and cruel and abusive? Would it feel the same as lust? Or would it be totally different, a whole new experience?

Was it even love at all, was the main question.

Hypothesis: None. This was a research-gathering experiment.

Results? None yet, but he had several experiments in mind and he would analyze these results for the-

Conclusion? What would it be?

That was a good question. How would it end?

Ivan would be lying if he said he'd never felt an attraction to someone who was broken, like him.

He liked them broken. He liked them hurting on the inside. He liked that hollow, emotionless stare.

But for some reason, this boy, this angelic being on earth, had struck a chord inside of him, a chord he'd believed had been cut long ago. Seeing that boy throw himself off a cliff and plummet to the earth like an angel cast down from heaven, was too much for his dead heart to handle.

He'd mindlessly saved him.

Saved him.

How strange. He'd never saved anyone.

Then again, he'd never loved someone before either. Never even considered that he might. Never experimented with something he didn't believe could exist, co-exist, with a world of hurt he'd grown so numb and accustomed to.

Well, there was a first for everything.

And a first for him.

Because when he'd been holding that boy in his arms, his drenched lithe little body in his arms, a living, breathing corpse, husk of a human being, he'd felt his heart beat.

For a moment, just a moment, he'd felt his heart leap with joy.

And that alone, was enough for him to wonder.

* * *

><p><strong>Not as long as I'd like, but I'm satisfied with it. For a long time I wrestled with this chapter. I wasn't sure exactly what I wanted in it, you see. I actually had three thousand words of this chapter written, but then I got frustrated that I couldn't find the ending I wanted, so I deleted 34 of it and started again. And I think it's better than it was before, because it seemed to flow more naturally from my mind, you know? No? You don't know? Maybe I'm insane. I don't know. I'm just glad I managed to update with something that wasn't forced or unnatural (or at least, seemed forced and unnatural to me, which is most important because writing is MY hobby, meaning I should enjoy it, right? And it's my belief that if the writer doesn't enjoy it, then the readers won't enjoy it).**


	5. Chapter 5

_Matthew was too afraid, too keyed up to even consider sleeping._

Matthew never slept better than when he was resting in his Russian's arms.

_He couldn't stop staring at the intimidating, large psychopath laying across from him. _

He traced the scars up and down his back, feeling the cold skin flexing under his fingertips.

_He was ugly. His face was hard and brutish, cruel and childish with harsh features. _

He'd never seen a more welcoming face, a calming one. Maybe his perception of him had simply changed over the years. Maybe. All he knew for sure was that not seeing his lover's face would've hurt more than he could possibly imagine, even more than that moment, so long ago, when he'd been standing on the edge of that cliff, staring at death.

_Matthew was afraid of him. _

Now he was afraid _for_ him. He worried about him. Sometimes when the man's eyes roamed up and down his body, they'd darken with guilt. But Matthew didn't want him to be guilty, not one bit. The bruises don't hurt, Ivan, he'd say. _They're a symbol of love and if I didn't have them, I wouldn't know if you loved me. _He wasn't a masochist, of course not. He didn't enjoy pain. But he did enjoy seeing just how passionate his lover was. In a cold world, he enjoyed feeling the vicious, ferocious heat of love, of passion, unrestricted and uncontrolled. It was like standing too close to a fire. Warm and electrifying. It made him feel more like than he had in years. No screw that. It made him feel more alive tha he'd ever felt before.

_All he could think about was his brother. And his friend. Gilbert._

The names made him pause. Gilbert. Alfred. Two names. Two people he'd loved. Of course he still loved them now and he missed his brother terribly. Being away from him hurt. But being away from Ivan?

It would've _killed_ him.

_Were they thinking about him?_

He'd seen in the news. They were. They were looking for him, Gilbert and Alfred, some friends of theirs, and his father and mother. It had been many years, but they were still looking for him, even though the media and the police had given up. But most importantly, _Alfred_ was still looking. Matthew had seen his beloved brother on screen. So tired. So sad. The pain in his eyes made him appear older, more careworn. Matthew wished he could see his brother smile again. He looked much older than he was. It was depressing to see such an energetic person look so dejected and stressed.

He looked so lost.

Looking at his brother, Matthew wondered if he should feel guilty. Bad. Regretful.

Guilty, yes, even if he shouldn't, he would feel guilty, so that was one emotion he did allow himself to feel.

But regretful? No, he couldn't, shouldn't, wouldn't take back what had happened so many years ago. It hadn't been a willing choice of his, back then, but Ivan had given him his choice: stay or leave. It was completely his decision. And he'd chosen to stay. He couldn't feel regretful about his decision, just couldn't/

And he couldn't, wouldn't, shouldn't take it back, no matter how much his heart hurt when he saw his brother crying on camera.

_Will I die? Will he hurt me? But most importantly, do I want to die? _

The thought of death. Matthew used to entertain it constantly. Death used to always be on his mind, not always on the forefront, but lurking in the background, ready to come out when he was alone and in need of companionship and getting nothing but loneliness and the sharp pain of knowing he had no one.

But no longer.

Now, he had someone he loved, cared about with his entire being and more. Someone who not only loved him, but needed him, like the earth needs the sun, like the dark needs the light, like a fire needs oxygen, like a human needs warmth.

Perhaps it was foolishness.

Perhaps it was stupidity, naivety, childishness that convinced him that Ivan, his Russian, his lover, his boyfriend, his savior in more ways than one, was all he needed, the only reason he needed to push the thought of death away and push it away for good.

Perhaps it was loneliness.

How far do people go to escape loneliness? Perhaps companionship is all we, as humans want, all we really need. Perhaps the love and passion and the feeling of knowing you're precious to someone else are all the reasons we need to keep breathing.

How far would you go? Would you throw yourself at the first person who offered his love? Clinging to something is better than being left with nothing. If you lived in a world devoid of companionship, of love, of the warmth of another, then is it better to be alone or better to have something, anything at all? Stand for something or you'll fall for anything? Love someone, something, anything and get rid of the loneliness, get rid of the feeling of emptiness and nothingness? Was that falling?

Had Matthew fallen? Been so desperate and so pathetic as to fall in love with his captor? Stockholm Syndrone? Was that it? Did he have a disorder, some other mental issue that some psychiatrist could "cure?"

He didn't think so. It certainly didn't feel that way.

Logically speaking, perhaps it was a disorder.

But he'd found that logic could go to hell.

Who needs logic? Logically, an argument can be made for any case. It's deciding which side that is the right one that is the important question to ask before taking one. He didn't believe he was wrong.

Matthew didn't believe he'd fallen.

He'd been falling, yes, but Ivan had grabbed him, caught him, and saved him from the pit he'd almost drowned in.

Nothingness. Emptiness. Hollowness.

The absence of anything.

Lack of meaning, lack of love, nothing but numbness.

When the numbness faded away, there was nothing left but pain to fill the void of the space where emotions should've been. God, he knew that pain. Not just the emptiness, but all of it.

He couldn't go back to that. Ivan had purposely pulled him out and away from it. It was the right decision, in fact, it had been his _only _decision. How could it possibly have been wrong?

"What are you thinking of?" the man whispered.

"Love. Loneliness. Pain," Matthew replied, shrugging casually.

His lover turned over and stared at him, his violet eyes, identical to his, staring deep into his soul. But he no longer had to dig for answers or search for his thoughts. He knew Matthew, inside and out, up and down, right to left. He knew everything from his deepest feelings to his happiest moments, all of which had to do with being with him. It made him happy to know the one he loved so well. Or no, that wasn't quite right. It was knowing every part of him, the intimacy, that allowed him to love him so well, so thoroughly.

"Why?"

"I saw Alfred on TV today. I was just thinking about... how badly I want to tell him to move on. Find someone meaningful. Fall in love. Maybe start a family. I want to tell him... about what I've found. You know?"

The Russian wrapped his arms around him and put his head down on his shoulder thoughtfully.

"Maybe you should."

"You know you could."

"Should I?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe."

Matthew opened his mouth, exhaling softly.

"You know I can see it in your eyes. You're an open book."

"Only to you, my sweet sunflower."

"Hmm-hmm."

"What is it you can see, Matvey?"

"I can see that you feel guilty. About this. About us," Matthew murmured, pressing his lips to Ivan's collarbone.

"Not guilty," Ivan protested. "Just bad. That Alfred doesn't even know what happened to you."

"And he doesn't need to know," Matthew said sharply and abruptly. "I just-"

_Want to tell him that I'm okay. That he doesn't need to keep looking for me. That I forgive him for... everything. That he doesn't need to feel guilty anymore. That he's allowed to be happy. _

"You should tell him."

Matthew smiled softly, his arms wrapping around Ivan's waist, and pressing himself closer to the other's skin.

"I will."

Should, could, would.

Yes, he'd tell Alfred. Not about everything. There were some things he didn't need to know.

But he would tell Alfred all the important things.

The necessary things.

The things he'd learned.

Or.

Maybe.

Just maybe. He just wanted Alfred to know he loved him.

Yes, he needed to tell him, remind him that he loved him.

All those years ago, he still remembered Alfred asking for forgiveness and telling him.

I love you. _And don't you forget it. _

Matthew smiled. He could almost hear Alfred saying that. Love ya' and don't you ever forget it!

Perhaps Alfred needed to be reminded, the way he'd needed to, way back when.

Maybe Alfred just needed him to tell him he loved him.

* * *

><p><strong>...<strong>

**...**

**Um...not sure... what to say. I normally don't do five chapter stories... and my last one was kind of crappy. So, uh, want to tell me how you feel about this one? Disappointed it wasn't longer, more exciting? **

**More elaboration or details or more of a plot? Felt it was too quick? Or left you hanging?**

**Basically I'm asking whether you think it's good or bad. So review please. **


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